


Perks Of Living As A Dragon

by theavidreader13



Series: Memoirs of a Detective and a Dragon [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A study in dragons, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholism, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Brother Feels, Conductor of Light Feels, Continuation, Crazy Sherlock, Dragons, FAE world, Fantasy, Flying, Gen, Harry Watson - Freeform, Implied Relationships, John is a Detective, Killings, Mad Sherlock, Magic, Mind Palace, NSY - Freeform, NSY Being Idiots, Overprotective Mycroft, Past Relationship(s), Serial Killer, Sibling Bonding, Swearing, because seriously, cases, did i mention john is a dragon, harry watson is an alcoholic, if you like a study in dragons you'll like it, just read it, murder (duh), read a study in dragons first, serial killer on the loose, sherlock is a dracustos, stressed lestrade, when is he not stressed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9907379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theavidreader13/pseuds/theavidreader13
Summary: John, armed with the knowledge of his draconian background, continues solving cases with his ally, the one and only dracusto Sherlock Holmes. There's a new killer in town (when isn't there) and one very major dilemma: John getting the guts to talk to Harry again, because surprise! She might be a dragon too.... DISCONTINUED





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's here! It's here! It's actually actually here! Go thank EvilConcubine on AO3 for kickstarting the muse. I hope you guys like it!

In John’s defence, it was an accident.

 

Well, at least, that’s what John tries to tell himself as he peers over the gaping wound in the world’s only consulting detective’s back. Luckily it’s not too deep - it had been a shallow, misbalanced swipe of John’s massive talon - but the sheer amount of crimson blood staining Sherlock’s far-too-visible spine is making John beat himself up on the inside a little.

 

Scratch that. There’s about a thousand tiny Johns in the draconian doctor’s head currently lifting their hands up and scolding him for sheer recklessness, endangerment of his best friend’s life, and letting the criminal get away when he shifted back, horrified, to tend to Sherlock’s wounds. Definitely not beating himself up a  _ little _ .

 

_ Pull yourself together, Watson _ , John mentally snipes at himself as he wraps a clean white bandage around the antiseptic-treated claw mark. Sherlock shifts. “I’m not about to break, John,” he says snarkily. “You and I both know it was an accident, unless you’ve been planning to kill me since the day we met. Now hurry up and get the bandage on, I need to go to my Mind Palace.”

 

John rolls his eyes fondly, trying his best to ignore the guilt rapping at his chest, and finishes wrapping the bandage before lightly tapping Sherlock on the shoulder. “You’re all set.”

 

Sherlock pulls a worn shirt over his head, barely even wincing at the stretch it does to his back, and glares menacingly at the knife he and John had taken from the killer they had been chasing. “DNA? Blood? Fingerprint?” he asks, scrutinizing the blade with multicoloured eyes. John shakes his head. “Nope. Scanned the whole thing. I think he wore latex gloves, look at the piece of blue there. Probably not that good of a lead, but-”

 

Immediately the detective jumps up, a manic grin on his face. “Oh, but John, if only it were that simple. As a conductor of light, as usual, you are brilliant.” He carefully grabs the knife by its curved handle and inspects the miniscule piece of latex stuck to it, John amusedly watching as his crazed flatmate ran through his Mind Palace. He rolls his eyes when Sherlock begins rambling on about latex properties and glove stores before giving up and walking out of the flat. Might as well get some fish and chips when he can - God knows when he’ll get the chance to eat again when Sherlock gets his claws on his next case.

 

Although, technically, it’s  _ John  _ who has the claws. 

 

Being a dragon, John quickly figured out, was something that the mind didn’t wrap around very quickly. The only other person who knew of his, ah, decidedly draconian alter ego was Mrs Hudson, and that was because she kept finding scales everywhere and Sherlock was terrible at keeping secrets. John didn’t mind telling the lovable elderly lady, but he did mind the loud gasp she’d emitted and the fact that he had to carry her all the way back to 221 A when she’d fainted because Sherlock claimed he didn’t possess the strength. Bullshit. John had seen the detective practically mow down cars in pursuit of a killer.

 

Being a dragon is also the most exhilarating experience John has ever known, and he’s fought bloody wars, faced down vengeful crime bosses, and lives with  _ Sherlock bloody Holmes _ of all people.

 

Ever since taking down Moriarty, the two have spent weeks developing John’s draconian talents. Whenever they’re not boggled by a Yard case or a client case or just plain exhausted from the aftermath of a case, Sherlock and John went up to the roof of the 221 building and John practised his shifting. Sherlock, being a  _ dracusto _ , had the unique ability to communicate with John when he shifted (an ability they’d stumbled on pure accident when John nearly collapsed onto Sherlock and he heard a very loud, very Sherlockian  _ bloody fuck!  _ in the back of his head) and helped to coordinate his movements. Soon they’d try flying. 

 

_ Flying _ .

 

John stares up at the faint stars twinkling in the London sky. It almost seems unreal, to think that he could be right up there, right up there with all of them. His primary school teachers always told him to reach for the stars, and he supposes it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

The knowledge of being a dragon came with an uncomfortable question: which of his parents were dragons? And was Harry one? John had never met his father - he had left the family before John turned two, and his mother still pregnant with Harry - but he knew from the stories that he was an alcoholic and regularly beat his mother. His mother was a kind soul who poured her heart into raising her children, but she was often overworked and wasn’t able to stop Harry from going down the path of self-destruction like their father when she was in her teens. John figured the dragon was probably his father, but he wouldn’t rule out his mother, either. Unfortunately, both were dead, and he would never know.

 

That left the question of Harry.

 

A bitter smile on his lips, John fiddles with the phone in his hand, thumb rubbing over the inscription -  _ To Harry, xxx Clara _ \- as he continues to stare at the stars, walking alone on the surprisingly deserted London road. Laughter and cars resound through the air despite his solitude - London never truly goes quiet - and he smells fish and chips in the air as he considers taking up his younger sister’s offer and ringing her.

 

He remembers the day she gave him the phone. It was his third day back from Afghanistan. He had spent the first two in a rancid inn, watching the days fly away as he wandered aimlessly through the city he had loved so much. Wandered until an inner voice told him to man the hell up and actually do something. Something useful. And staring at pigeons in Hyde Park, while highly amusing whenever a piece of bread flew from the hands of a mischievous tot to the ground and the pigeons went into a raging battle mode, was  _ not  _ useful. Nor helpful. Or even remotely attached to him getting the use of his leg and hand back, much to his disappointment.

 

So he caved, caved to the instinct that one should be able to face their younger sister with a steady amount of dignity and just for the fact that they were  _ siblings _ , and went to the flat that he recalled Harry and Clara living in.

 

He rang the bell. No answer.

 

He sighed, tapped his foot on the ground. Rang again. No answer. 

 

Ten awkward seconds passed before John summoned enough courage to knock, three sharp raps against the steady wooden frame. Finally someone pulled open the door, but this disheveled thirty-something man holding a little girl in his arms was certainly not Harry or Clara. Shrieks of children’s laughter and a gentle but admonishing motherly voice inside alerted him to the fact that there was a family living in this flat, and it wasn’t his sister’s. Something must have happened.

 

“I’m so sorry,” John said, mortified to have bothered this family for no reason. “I thought someone else lived here. My sister.”

 

The man’s face fell. “Ah. They moved out six months ago. I think,” the man eyed him apologetically, “I think there was a divorce. Not sure though. Real sorry about that, mate.”

 

And with a feeling worse than learning he was forever unable to be useful, John walked away, more determined than ever to find his sister. So he walked inside a coffee shop, asked to borrow a phone, and called Clara, who tearfully told him of Harry’s relapse and of the straw that broke the camel’s back - Harry had slapped her. Clara hadn’t pressed charges, but she did pack her bags and leave. Last she heard, Harry was in and out of drug dens in the seedier parts of London. She gave John an address, and so with a face grimmer than Death John went to face his baby sister.

 

Harry was wasted. Absolutely, downright wasted. She grinned shakily at John when she opened the door of the tiny bedsit - if that was even what it could be called - in a dirty alley by Soho. “Oh, would you look at that, it’s Johnny boy, back from the dead,” she joked, breath reeking of alcohol. “Fuck, Clara sent you here, didn’t she? Big brother always has to take care of his shitty sister? What the hell is that?” Harry rambled on, gesturing wildly to the black-tipped cane that John carried. 

 

“I’ve got a limp,” John said plainly, trying to ignore the tremor coming back in his damnable hand. “Harry, let’s go, I can get you -”

 

“ _ Help _ ?” She sneered, turning her back on him and picking up a half-empty bottle of whiskey. By the state of her hair and bloodshot eyes, this had been her primary focus over the last six months. “Fuck no.”

 

John sighed, staring at his sister and trying to equate her with the happy, blue-eyed girl who he patched up when she fell. “Harry, please. This isn’t you. You were doing so well-”

 

“Oh really?” Harry asked, whirling on him with rage-filled eyes. “Was I? Was I really doing  _ so well _ , Johnny, when I was begging myself to get a drink? Was I when I hit Clara? Was I when I went over to the pub and got myself like  _ this? _ Was I when I took a real nice girl to a room and fucked the life out of her? Tell me, Johnny, ‘cause this, this doesn’t look fucking  _ well _ ,” Harry sniped hatefully, nothing but drunken rage in her eyes. 

 

“Okay. Fine. So you want to wallow in your misery and you don’t want help. I did my duty,” John retorted back, and promptly felt terrible for when Harry’s baby blue eyes welled up with tears. “No, Harry-”

 

She cut him off. “It’s fine, Johnny. You did your fucking duty. You can go now, live your picturesque life with your sodding limp.” She flings something which John barely catches. A phone. “Keep in touch, bla bla bla. Now get the hell out of my flat before I scream.”

 

Knowing Harry, John figured she really would scream, and with guilt trapping his every move, he wrapped his sister in a hug and left. Left until he was back in Hyde Park, aimlessly wandering and watching the goddamn pigeons.

 

That was a few months ago, and now as John walks towards the fish and chips stand he can’t help but wonder if he should try again.  _ I’m better now _ , he thinks.  _ I can deal with it. I can deal with her. I deal with Sherlock, I can damn well deal with my own sister _ .

 

And he needs to know whether she’s a dragon, because if she is and she accidentally shifts when intoxicated…

 

Well, one could be a resident NSY idiot, as Sherlock called them, and still be able to give an educated guess on exactly what would happen if Harry stormed across London, a drunk dragon.

 

He orders his fish and chips and sits on an empty bench nearby. Sometimes he goes out like this when Sherlock is in his Mind Palace, just sits and contemplates his crazy world. His crazy world full of overprotective brothers who control the government, stressed detective inspectors who crave a bit of normalcy, motherly landladies without whom “England would fall”, and mad flatmates who also share in on your secret of being a dragon, not to mention solving the occasional international crime involving God-knows-what.

 

And also alcoholic sisters. Alcoholic sisters who need help. Alcoholic sisters who would most certainly help if the tables were turned. 

 

John runs his fingers over the phone, debating whether he really should do it, before laughing at the sky and opening the mobile and dialling the number he’s memorised since age nineteen. The phone rings, once, twice, three times,  _ she’s not going to pick up,  _ four, five,  _ she’s really not going to pick up- _

  
The line clicks. John’s never felt such relief (well, actually, when Sherlock’s heart started beating again). “Hey, Harry.”


	2. AN

SORRY SORRY I'M SO SORRY but this is being officially discontinued and put up for adoption. Deepest apologies.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so not sorry. No promises. Updates will come as quickly as I can get them, but remember I've still got the devil known as school at my heels. HOWEVER, comments make the muse very happy...


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